


Mickey O'Dell, At Yer Service

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: "Did it HAVE to be this complicated?" Garrison complained over a drink.  Sometimes he thought their various operations on THIS side of the Channel were more draining than the ones in enemy territory.
Kudos: 2





	Mickey O'Dell, At Yer Service

When he'd been called into Garrison's office, from the grim and very worried expression on the young officer's face, the more detached but still serious expression on Major Kevin Richards' face, Goniff figured he was in deep trouble. He wasn't sure for WHAT, yet; shifting through his mind, there were a good three, maybe four possibilities, after all. 

Hopefully they wouldn't take too long to get to the point; the sooner he knew, the more time he had to cobble together his excuse/denial/innocent rejection of the very IDEA(!) of him doing such a thing - well, the more time, the better, and he couldn't very well DO that, til he knew what they were talking about.

Goniff was initially relieved to find out that, no, he WASN'T in trouble, Garrison or Richards not so much as mentioning that emerald and gold broach that was still tucked away in his hiding place upstairs. 

Nor did they bring up that crystal paperweight from that toff's house that somehow ended up in Goniff's pocket when they'd left the place. Well, the ruddy toff had it coming; rude, he'd been, positively rude! And after all the team had done for him and his family! And it was such a sparklie bit of fancy, it had just purely begged to come home with him! Well, he DID have a weakness for the sparklies.

They didn't say anything bad about him practicing throwing the knife the way Chiefy was teaching him; after all, he hadn't MEANT to scare Private Jenkins that way. Jenkins had just come around that corner unexpected-like, wasn't like Goniff had intended to send the knife through his cap! Though, Goniff had gotten way better with throwing, recently, like it all of a sudden just clicked, so he COULD have done that for real, if he'd wanted to. But Jenkins was a good bloke, and scaring him on purpose wouldn't have been funny, not like if it had been Casino or maybe Actor.

And they HADN'T mentioned what he was starting to get a little worried about, about how maybe that knee that kept going bad on him made him less valuable to the team. Well, he didn't think Garrison would, though he knew the man worried about it, more than he'd let on. But Major Richards? Who knew which side of the fence he'd come down on; the man was seriously - oh, what was the word 'Gaida used? Ah, yes. Major Richards was 'seriously conflicted' on the subject of Goniff Grainger, and that made things a little uncertain in a lot of respects.

Then, as he listened, heard them out, he realized he'd been right in the first place. He was in serious trouble, way serious - or at least he was going to be, right soon. 

Well, being dead surely had to count as serious trouble, didn't it?

There were two separate parts to the job, he'd been told. Garrison would handle the first, and no one better suited, in Goniff's opinion. After all, although Actor might be the one with the solid reputation of being a con artist, Garrison was damned smooth at the job too. And even if he hadn't been, Garrison's part was pretty much just being himself, doing what he most likely would have been doing anyway, running the team, planning the missions, keeping up with the translating and all the rest - just, now, being extra careful about it all, keeping a close eye on where the trouble might be coming from. Being ready to spring the trap when the time was right.

But in order for Goniff to do HIS part, he had to be free to move, to be - no, to BECOME someone else, and let someone else take his place on the team. And for that to happen, realistically, he had to die. 

Problem with dying was, now he had those who would actually notice, would even care. 

That was a problem he'd not been bothered with so very much in his past, except for the obvious exceptions of his nearest and dearest, his mum and his Aunt Moll. He'd killed off more than one of his old identities, but those had been ones his two dear ladies never even knew existed. To them, he was Rodney, plain and simple, and even if that wasn't the case, well, he'd gone to great lengths to keep them at that level of innocence. Lord knows, SOMEONE deserved to be that innocent, even if it wasn't him.

Now, well, it gave him pause, thinking to kill off THIS identity, really his core identity, even if it was supposed to be just temporary. After all, there were actually those who WOULD notice, WOULD care, even if Craig had sworn not to write that 'condolences letter', at least, not unless it was for real. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, acourse, but it wasn't only his two ladies back in New York he had to think of, there was another much closer, one who wouldn't be palmed off so easily.

Not that he could let that stop him from doing the job, not with Garrison counting on him, but still, it did give him pause. Enough he disobeyed orders, just enough to let at least that one person know - well, maybe no details; that wasn't really possible, since he possibly had eyes and ears on him by now, but enough she'd not worry herself to pieces. 

And besides, her knowing, that just made him feel more comfortable about the whole thing. After all, she was ruddy resourceful, his 'Gaida. Not subtle, no, he couldn't say she was THAT, but resourceful she was. 

Wouldn't be surprised if she didn't find some way to lend a hand, maybe enough he'd actually get through this without getting himself killed for real. All in all, he really would prefer it that way. Selfish of him, maybe, but still, he WOULD like to think of him walking out on the other side, still breathing. For the first time he had plans for his life, other than just surviving.

***  
He'd shown up at the cottage in a shirt of burgundy with a thin white gingham check, a shirt that seemed to blur his slender build just a little, seemed to mute the shadows under his eyes, emphasizing the contrast between that and the fatigues he usually wore. He hadn't come any farther than the car park, just tooted the horn a couple of times to let her know he was there. She'd come out, still drying her hands on the towel at her waist, wondering why he was still outside the gates, leaning up with his back against the car.

"No, won't come in. Just came by to say. . . Well, to say goodbye, I guess. Leastwise, for now; til I get things lined up. Got turned out, ya see," he'd offered, nervous twitch at the downturned corner of his slightly sullen mouth. 

She listened, watched, puzzled look on her face, as he reached for a cigarette, saw that tiny flicker of his fingers, once, then the fast streaking of his free hand through his hair, one finger smoothing a stray piece behind his ear. {"Someone Watching - Listeners - Play Along. Alright, so what am I 'playing along' WITH, Goniff? Give me at least a hint?"}

She listened as he gave a few words of explanation. "Warden caught on; no backtracking on this one. Give me the boot; figure the army boys will be chasing after afore long, police right along side. Guess I stretched too far," he offered with a reluctant smile.

"YOU??! Can't imagine that," she'd offered, faint wry teasing in her worried voice, though her face showed only ever-increasing annoyance, unsure of what he was trying to tell her, but figuring that would be a safe emotion to be showing whoever he thought was watching. 

"And you, alone?" After all, while he DID get into independent mischief, more often it was a concerted effort, sometimes just one other of the guys, usually Casino, but sometimes everyone involved.

He lowered his head, if only slightly, looked up at her through sandy eyelashes. "Oh, just me. Too nice a score to bring anyone else in; shoulda, probably. Someone else mighta figured the Warden was keeping tabs." An off-hand gesture, an uncomfortable shrug, first with one shoulder, the other following in close accord, and it started to fall into place, at least the very bare bones of it. 

{"Lovely! Just bloody lovely! A con, with him running, if not the lead, then a major part! What on earth have they gotten him involved in this time??!"} 

She noticed just how clearly he was speaking, how he was careful to keep his face tilted toward the right. {"Lip-reader with binoculars, maybe? He's wanting to be sure they catch every word, whoever they are. Now, just how WOULD an Outlander lass react to all of that, hmmm?"}

She firmed her lips, put a scowl on her face. "So, Garrison cut you loose? He GIVE you that car? Or you just taking it as a 'final payment for services rendered'? How soon is he, and the authorities, going to be haring after you? And are they going to end up on MY doorstep?"

That got her a scowl and what was close to a snarl, but no answer. Well, that probably WAS answer enough.

"And I suppose you're off to your old haunts? The Lads you used to slip around the alleyways with, at the pub? Maybe see if Pat, maybe sweet dark-haired Jamie will give you a hand, maybe even a warm bed?" She'd given a slightly resentful, maybe jealous note to that last bit, the outer corners of her mouth turned downward. 

There was a flicker in those blue eyes, maybe relief, certainly understanding of what she was suggesting, was offering.

{"Well, it never hurts knowing you have another string to your bow. And in this case, not just one. Yes, dear James! He can be trusted, you know that, Goniff. Patrick certainly chose well; a nicer addition to the Family I can't imagine, and a more canny one at that! Could be those watching know my brothers' names; less likely they'll know about James, and even if they did, Jamie's not so unusual a name. And could be a woman just as easily as a man's name, too, that AND 'Pat'."} 

She silently urged the man in front of her in that direction, let the urgency fill her eyes. Surely no watcher would be able to know what she was telling him!

Goniff hunched his shoulders just a little, nodding crisply, perhaps defiantly, in response.

"Maybe I just will. And what's so wrong with that? No place for me 'ere anymore. The guys can't 'elp, now can they? Even if they were of a mind to. Not without the Warden tossing them out into the road too. 

"Can't see YOU opening the door to me, wouldn't ask you to, anyway, w'at with all the flack that would bring! First place they'd look, most like. Even if you WOULD or COULD, what with all your nattering on about me not staying outta trouble, w'at I coulda done, w'at I shoulda done, likely get no peace any'ow! W'at am I supposed to do, curl up inna attic somew'ere and die? Maybe do w'at Casino suggested, take a long walk off'n a short pier for bringing trouble down on them all?"

He wasn't hiding anything now - resentment, anger, embarrassment, maybe a little sullen fear - all resting there open to anyone's view. Another quick movement, aborted, then another, as if his emotions were too strong for there to even BE words! Then both hands dragged through his ashen hair in sheer and utter frustration. She read it all, translating his intent, what he wanted her to know, wanted her to DO! She imagined the watchers were picking up on exactly what he wanted them to. {"So talented, he is, my laddie! And likely to be walking off that short pier for real, if he's not careful about it!"}

She let her face go hard and angry, fists curled at her side as she took one quick step forward, letting her voice raise a couple of levels.

"Maybe so! If you can't make good of a sweet deal like what the Lieutenant offered you, maybe you just should! Well, don't be expecting any tears from me, that's all I can say! I'll light a candle for you, though; I'll at least do THAT much!" {"Thank you, Sister Therese! Never thought I'd say THAT, but only Goniff would understand what I'm truly saying!"}

She stormed back into the cottage, slamming the garden gate shut with a metallic bang, and locking it, him standing there staring after her. Cursing to himself, he threw the cigarette butt down and crushed it out with his foot, and got back into the car and roared off.

Inside the cottage, she drew a deep breath, keeping a harsh control over her expression, only what might have been expected after such an emotional encounter, nothing different. {"So, listeners, of various types, ALL types? Could they have actually bugged the cottage? Cameras of some nature, film? I'd not think so, not with the wardings Caeide put in place, and all the other safeguards. Still, not to take a chance, not til I check the place carefully. Phone lines? Aye, that could be done on the tie in from my line to others. Radio? Yes, if they thought of the possibility, if they had the transmitter detection equipment available. Can't give away that little ace in the hole."} 

Frankly, she didn't think anything except physical watchers and maybe the telephone were a possibility, but she'd not take the chance, not after all he'd gone through to put her on guard.

An hour or so later, snatching up a basket of hastily-gathered clothing and linens, she walked casually to the car. It took only a few minutes before she was pulling up alongside Mrs. Wilson's cottage. Lovely that her friend, the old washer woman, had been agreeable to Meghada's early offer of quietly providing that cottage with phone service, just so Meghada could have another line out that no one else would know about. Part of the agreement was that Mrs. Wilson not mention the how's, why's or who's of that not-so-common telephone, and she'd kept her word all this time. 

Yes, her brother Patrick would be well aware, soon enough, and he and his beloved James prepared to assist her laddie in whatever complicated mess he'd managed to waltz into THIS time! 

Sometimes, she swore, Goniff had to be sitting up nights thinking of ways to turn her grey before her time, well, him and Garrison together anymore. Though she'd heard Craig say that very thing about her and Goniff and the other guys more than once, now she thought on it. Back in the car and headed home, she just swore, long, hard and in a most satisfying manner, getting an amazing amount of relief in the doing.

And she intended to poke around the edges of this hornets' nest, to learn what and where and who, just in case she was needed. She had a feeling she was likely to end up biting someone's head off before it was all over, and it would be well if she chose the right person. After all, Craig would likely scold if she guessed wrong, and she was increasingly willing to accommodate him and his fussiness, all in order to please her own, THEIR own, sweet lad, thorough-going rascal that he was, bless him!

***  
Garrison looked down at the stretcher, taking in that one arm in a blood-soaked burgundy shirt, limp bloodied hand draping down toward the ground. Carefully he reached down to pull back the sheet, seeing that battered and bloody face, lips partly open, hazed blue eyes caught at just a sliver open. Flaxen hair matted with blood. The ugly gaping wound at the throat left little doubt how the final end had come.

With his lips drawn tight, he nodded briskly. "Yes, that's him. Rodney Grainger. Went by 'Goniff'. He worked for me. What happened, do you know?"

The older constable nodded grimly. "Took on the wrong set of blokes. Outta towners; can't says I blame them, though. Took on a job for them, seems like, then tried to skim the till. Slit 'is weasel, after they let 'im know what they thought of 'is efforts. Dumped 'im in the alley back of the pub across the way. Yer name and place was on a piece of paper in 'is pocket, only way we knew who to contact."

Garrison nodded, knowing that sight would stay with him for a long time. It was with some effort he kept his gorge from rising as it kept threatening to do.

"Alright," and started to turn away. That was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, just turning and walking away, but none of that showed on his face. 

The constables looked at each other and frowned. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, sir. W'at do you want us to do with - well, I mean, iffen 'e worked for you, you'd be wanting to make arrangements or something?"

Garrison turned, took a long look at the sheet-covered body on the stretcher, and shook his head, shrugged. 

"Do whatever you'd usually do, Constables, with unclaimed bodies, maybe a hospital morgue or someplace. Thank the Sweet Mother, he's not the Army's concern anymore. I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

The two watched as the American Lieutenant straightened his hat and walked away.

"Well, don't that beat all? Jake, w'at now? The local dieners are already jammed, won't thank us for bringing em one more," one of the two police officers, the younger one, Jorie, asked. 

The older considered. Oh, he considered many things, including that 'Sweet Mother' comment, not that he intended to explain to his young partner that he'd just been waiting for that confirmation of his earlier instructions. 

Well, he could hardly do that, now could he, considering just where those instructions had come from. Jorie only had the one set of bosses, those at the station. Him, he had others, had since the day he'd been born. Though perhaps 'bosses' weren't the right word; just, Family had a right to ask such of Friends, and he was more than pleased to oblige, even if he hadn't a clue as to the why of it all. His mam had told him that, often as not, you never WOULD know the rights and whys of it all, but that wasn't so important. After all, you trusted the Clan knew what they were about; wasn't for others to go second-guessing them.

"Heard there's a hospital doing some, well, 'research', you might say. Offering a few quid, even, for such as him. No one's going to miss this one; might as well drop him off there. Maybe treat ourselves to a pint after, even a pasty or two mayhap."

The watcher was carefully noting all that, grimly satisfied that the American officer really was just leaving, not taking a hand. As for the constables, he hadn't quite expected that response, but, well, times were lean all around. Still, he followed along, just to be sure. The folks what had hired him wouldn't appreciate him being gammoned like some farm lad. 

And so it was that the ambulance pulled up at the back of a small shabby hospital in the East End, a short exchange was made - one limp body for a handful of coins. The now unsheeted and decidedly blood-soaked lolling body was quickly pulled off the ambulance stretcher, dropped carelessly onto a gurney, almost skidding off before being roughly caught and dragged back into position, different sheet put in place, and the two constables, the two attendants each went their way. Yes, a profitable transaction all around. 

The watcher nodded in satisfaction. {"Done and done. Don't have to see him being carved up to know it's a done deal. Someone's still breathing, you don't much toss him down like he's a sack of turnips."}

And he left to report back to those who'd sent him to watch.

***  
"Blimey, James! Sure you couldn't of just dropped me to the pavement, maybe let me bounce a time or two?? Maybe toss me down the coal chute? Woulda been about as easy," Goniff complained as he crawled off the gurney once the solid wooden door shut securely behind them. He straightened up, making a show of rubbing his supposed bruises. 

Actually he was more trying to cover his sheer relief at being here, in friendly company, first step in this ludicrous job accomplished without him ending up brown bread and all. Of course, that left a lot of other ways for that to happen, and time aplenty as well, he had to admit.

He plucked at the blood-drenched shirt and a deep frown of distaste furrowed his brow, causing his nose to wrinkle and his mouth to turn downward. Not only did it FEEL pure nasty, his shirt was ruined!

"LIKED that shirt, I did! Nice color. Even fit me 'alfway decent. Only wore it 'alf a dozen times, no more. Don't expect we can ever get all that blood outta it."

Well, that was true enough. The 'blood' they'd used did have a way of clinging, even past what real human blood would have done.

Catching sight of the mirror on the wall, he took a long look at the ugly mess that was his throat, grimaced and reached up to peel off the carefully-constructed wax 'wound' that stretched from under one ear around the front all the way to the other. Well, it took doctors who'd SEEN that sort of wound to reconstruct it accurately, and he had to admit, it was as realistic as the few such wounds he'd seen personally. His mind went back to the 'carrying' job he'd done for Maggs once when sweet little Lola had lost her temper with one of her suitors.

"Now that's a sight that won't go away easily," he remarked, giving a very real shudder. "Course, not everyone can get their throat slit like that and get to SEE the sight anyroad; guess I'm lucky at that."

"Damned lucky, Goniff," James agreed, with Patrick giving a quick assent as he came through the door, with a clean set of clothes.

"Hurry, wash up and get changed, and let's talk about what supposed to happen with the next part of this mess you've managed to get yourself into this time," Meghada's brother suggested with a wry grin. "Oh, and now that you've, uh, 'fixed' that slit throat so nothing's going to drop out unexpectedly, how about we feed you? And I expect a stiff drink won't go far amiss, either."

Both James and Patrick laughed at the eager assent they got to that offer, escorting the slender pickpocket off in the direction of the private quarters of the hospital, the ones reserved just for Clan O'Donnell and those welcomed by the Clan. 

No matter how many places the Cockney pickpocket, Rodney Grainger, Goniff, wasn't welcome, he could, now and forever more, count on a welcome anyplace the Clan reigned supreme. Not that he understood that, possibly never really would, but still, it was what it was, and he wasn't going to deny it was damned convenient sometimes.

Hopefully the two men, or someone they knew, would be able to pull off the rest of what he needed. Now that he was 'dead', he was free to be - well, someone else. The question was, who?

By the next afternoon, the possibilities had been laid out for his perusal, and he had to admit, they did ruddy good work!

Now, looking at the expertly-molded crown that would disguise his crooked tooth, the three identity packets with bios, history and all else, the three mock-ups showing what USED to be his face, suitably altered, he ate his meal, sipped his whiskey, and listened to what they were proposing. 

{"Three very different blokes, that's for sure. Now, which one would be easy enough to keep in mind that I wouldn't give myself away? Which one would be the one most likely to keep them from even THINKING of connecting the dots between me and 'im?"} 

Looking, thinking, considering, he realized one fit the bill better than he could have ever hoped for. 

"Mickey O'Dell. Aye, that would suit me just fine, dinna ye think, lads?" his broad Cockney now giving way to a soft lilt that made Michael and James both grin with appreciation. "From Kilkenny, by way of many an other place, most recently Edinburgh."

James nodded. "Seems a perfect fit, 'Mickey'. Now, I was thinking maybe a scar, something prominent, along with the rest of the aging process. Knew a man once, an ax handle separated when he was a child, with him getting the backlash. That might do nicely - something you didn't care to look at too closely, something no one would go around wearing if there was any way other around. Something you'd not forget once you did see it. Yes, I can see Mickey O'Dell with just such a scar," using a pencil to lightly line out on one of those drawings what he was describing.

Goniff winced, "I'll look a right villain, alright. Purely RUIN my perfect profile," he complained, but with an appreciative look of his own. "Yes, that should do the trick right enough, if you can make it look old enough, and not something likely to get out of place. If we're training like the Lieutenant has us do, I'll be getting wet, sweaty, muddy and more."

***  
Casino was raging, Chief looked like he wanted to, and Actor was painfully withdrawn. Well, hearing Goniff had gotten himself beaten and then had his throat slit HAD been a shock to the team. They'd spent the past few days looking up every time they heard a door open or close, thinking to see the little Cockney popping back in.

"Whatta ya mean, you don't know what happened to him?"

Garrison was tight-lipped with annoyance, or at least that appeared to be the emotion uppermost at the moment. Well, it had been one hell of an annoying week, and he was making no bones about being more than a little fed up, on several counts. Fed up enough to be talking with his hands almost as much as Casino, though nowhere near what Goniff could . . . {"No, I won't go there, not now!"}

"I just TOLD you what happened, Casino. He tried one of his usual smart-ass plays on a crew that wasn't inclined to go as easy on him as I was, and he didn't get away with it. Simple as that."

Casino turned and threw the glass he was holding against the fireplace, along with an obviously heart-felt curse, and the shattering splatter of glass, the harsh crash was evidence of how he took THAT comment. If not, the glare of pure unadulterated frustrated rage he sent in Garrison's direction was enough to fill in any blanks. 

"I believe Casino is referring to his body, Craig," Actor interjected, "asking where he is to be, or has been, laid to rest." 

He was trying to keep things from exploding from all the tension in the room, but wasn't all that pleased himself, obviously. As annoying as he'd frequently found Goniff, or at least pretended he'd found him, this was a highly-unpleasant way for their partnership to end. 

They, he and the others, surely had a right to at least know where the man was buried. He remembered, after all, what he'd been told, that the others had discussed that when Actor had been thought dead in Transylvania. That he needed to be brought back to Brandonshire, where he could be, still, in some small way, a part of the team, a part of the family. 

Actor thought any of the team was deserving of the same thoughtfulness they'd wanted to extend to him. Unless it was a similar situation, of course, and he had a feeling it MIGHT be, in some ways. He sincerely hoped it was, anyway, and prayed he wasn't wrong. But if he was wrong, if Goniff was truly dead, it would mean something, for Goniff to be close by.

"Yeah, that's what I meant. We could go visit once in awhile. Keep him up on what's going on, ya know? He'd like that, I think. Might even hear the damned fool Limey chattering back at us. Can't imagine him keeping quiet for long; hell, he never could." 

The emotion that shone briefly in those dark eyes was probably just a trick of the lighting, nothing more.

"So. Brandonshire? London? Somewhere else? Where IS he, Warden?" Chief drawled in a flat, emotionless voice, letting that toothpick move casually from one side of his mouth to the other. "Just in case, like Pappy here says, we wanna go have a little chat, bring him up to date."

Garrison had looked a little uncomfortable then, remembering his abrupt hand-off of responsibility to the two constables. 

"I don't know; I didn't ask. He wasn't my concern anymore, and the Army had no obligation, not after the stunt he pulled. I imagine there's some procedure in place with the local authorities for unclaimed bodies."

There was dead silence at that disclaimer, one that would have told any listeners, any watchers, that Garrison didn't intend to go searching out the particulars, and that his men didn't think very highly of that decision.

That Chief was the one to pick up his glass, in total silence, drain it, and then suddenly, violently, hurl it into the fireplace pretty much said it all, as far as the team was concerned. There certainly were no more words, not then, not with Garrison in the room. 

He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation and frustration, started a gesture, a word, then paused, started perhaps a different approach, but seeing no give on any of their faces, not that any of them were even looking directly at him, he decided against pushing any further.

Garrison turned and walked out, closing the door behind him, not saying another word. Certainly not looking too carefully at that small bug he knew was hidden alongside the suit of armor in the corner. He didn't think there were cameras, but he wasn't taking the chance. Too much was riding on this.

Still, back in his office, he took a moment to thank all his stars that his men were so quick on the uptake - one little signal, followed by another, and they'd handled it just as he would have wanted, would have told them, if they'd had time or a safe place to discuss it. 

At least, he hoped to hell they'd picked up on all that. After all, their reaction, it had been pretty dead on target for what he would have expected of each and every one of them, if they HADN'T. He suppressed a groan, knowing if they HADN'T figured out it was a con, didn't understand, decided to go rogue on him, it was going to be one hell of a mess. Not that it wasn't that already.

Later, undressing for bed, he frowned to himself in the darkness, wondering how Goniff was managing, wishing he could pick up the phone and find out. Wishing he could call Meghada down at the cottage to see if she'd heard; he knew damned well, in spite of orders to the contrary, Goniff wouldn't have disappeared without giving her at least a heads-up. But doing either of those things, that would have spoiled everything if they had a mole here at the Mansion, if the lines were tapped, bugs planted, as he was pretty sure was the case. No, for now, he'd have to play it as if it was all real. 

{"Damn, if this goes wrong, it could all BE for real!"} and he felt his stomach clinch, and he had to swallow hard to keep from losing what little dinner he'd managed to choke down.

He lay awake then, his mind going back time after time to the sight of Goniff laying on that stretcher, shirt soaked in blood, that wide slash across his throat. Staring at the ceiling, he seemed to feel those barely-slitted blue eyes staring back at him. 

{"Damn it, Goniff! You stay SAFE, do you hear me??! Don't you DARE do something stupid and get your throat cut for real! DAMN this war!!!"}

It was going to be a long night, perhaps a series of long nights, til it all came together, til THEY were together again. Garrison readied himself, wondering just what the hell he'd let himself, let them ALL in for. 

Circles within circles within circles. Damn, he was getting sick and tired of traveling around in circles! To think he'd sent Goniff into that whirlpool of circles, to maybe sink therein and drown, that hurt more than he could ever describe. No, he couldn't let his mind go there! He refused to accept that possibility!

Back in the Common Room, the urge to talk it through was almost overpowering, but they knew better. Funny thing, early on, they'd never have trusted those little signals, the ones telling them it had been a con, to play along. Even now, although they'd gone through enough together, worked with Garrison enough to trust him, know he trusted them (well, in most things, anyway), it was hard. 

In the end, they'd pushed all that to the back, let themselves react as if it had been real, played along. And hoped like hell it WAS all a con, that Goniff was out there somewhere, doing whatever the hell it was he was doing. Hoping he'd make it back safe and sound. 

The first opportunity to talk more freely had been on a rough curve on the muddy obstacle course the following morning. Somehow they had ALL missed their footing, resulting in a mad tangle of limbs and bodies and soft voices. By the time they'd straightened themselves out, they'd decided. They'd play along, but Garrison had better damned well be playing this straight with them! If he wasn't, this was the deal-breaker to cap all deal-breakers.

*The Mansion:

"Alright, listen up, they scrapped the Norway job, but we have another in the works. It's a week or so out, so we have time for some prep, but it's listed as Priority Level One. We're all going to have to really focus. This is one even HQ isn't calling a 'walk in the park', so you know what THAT means! And, since we're a man down, we've got someone helping us for the second story work. If you haven't met him before, this is Blue McEnroy. He's been working some of the Special Ops teams." 

{"And if our information is right, 'working them' is exactly the right term."}

Now, it was introductions all around, and if the welcome was not overly 'welcoming', that was understandable. McEnroy obviously didn't seem upset at the lack of warmth; he was there to do a job. 

Well, actually, he was there to do more than ONE job. And he intended to stick around til he got at least the more important, the more profitable, of them done. That might take awhile, but that was okay. He'd already gotten about all he could have out of working with Corbett's team and he had been getting the uneasy feeling that Corbett, or maybe Beau, was catching on. About time he got out of there, dipped his line in a new pool. This time, Special Forces, not Special Ops - he was less likely to run into anyone he knew that way.

Of the two he'd considered, just from the chatter he'd heard about the Special Forces teams, Garrison's was the one he'd thought was likely to be most productive; it sounded like they got up to some very serious shit. But that was also the one he'd still been worrying around about how to make it happen. He'd had a friend manage to put the listening devices in place, tap a couple phone lines, but still, he'd just about convinced himself trying for the Davis team instead. Garrison's guys just seemed too damned close, too much on the ball. 

And now this? Damn, it couldn't have worked out better if he'd put in a special order with the Almighty! Their second story man going rogue, leaving a place open on their team, was just a pure gift!!

He'd hesitated, though, wondering if it was just too MUCH of a gift, maybe a trap. A little asking around, hiring a few eyes on the street, and he was convinced. Especially when Garrison's man poked the wrong hornets' nest and got himself offed, permanent-like! Just like he'd thought in the first place, a gift from heaven, sure enough!

Now that he was here, he'd snoop around a little, under the guise of just getting used to the place. The office, for sure, the map room, a few other places. And he'd listen, get the others to talking. Yeah, this was going to work out perfectly. His buyers were eager for more information, and he had a feeling he was going to make a real killing off this place, maybe even before he had to saddle up and leave on that mission of theirs. Wouldn't that be sweet?!! Get the goods and be gone before he had to go let anyone start shooting at him again! If this info could bring in enough, he just might consider retiring, maybe head out for someplace warmer. Yeah, one more big score on top of what he'd already squirreled away, that could just do it!!

*Malbury Manor, Special Ops Team Jada:

He'd presented himself at the Manor, papers in hand.

"Mickey O'Dell, at yer service. Told ye needed to borry me for awhile."

Corbett had looked at the small man on his doorstep, frowning, reading those papers, looking the man up and down once again, and then nodded. This wasn't quite what he expected, but he hadn't been given a hell of a lot of choice either. Well, he'd see what Corey thought of the newcomer.

"So, as you know, Blue's been co-opted for a job or two elsewhere, Corey. This is Mickey O'Dell; if we get called out, he'll do the second-story stuff for us; also some knife work, in case you need a backup, or as primary, if you're not operational by then." 

They most likely wouldn't get sent out for another couple of weeks, all three remaining members of the team still recovering from that job gone wrong. Maybe by that time, Blue McEnroy would be back. 

But that wasn't the point. Gerry Corbett was more than a little annoyed; he really didn't appreciate having HQ yank one of his team, even if they had offered up this replacement. And as for an explanation, he'd gotten the runaround, at least in the beginning. Finally, they'd caved, when they realized he wasn't inclined to budge. 

Well, that did put a slightly different spin on things. A team ready to go out on a mission when one of the team members, a vital member, did something really stupid and got himself killed in a back alley in London. Yeah, so he didn't have to like it, losing McEnroy but he DID understand the necessity. He just hoped this O'Dell was up to the job, if they got handed one. Somehow, he had his doubts, and it seemed he wasn't the only one. His second-in-command looked like he'd just bit into something highly unpleasant.

Corey Burmeister, Corbett's second-in-command, frowned and looked the newcomer up and down, trying to figure out how to say what was on his mind, and finally giving up and just going with what it was. 

"I don't know. You sure you're up to it, Pops? We ain't carting no rocking chairs around with us, you know."

Well, Mickey did have a few years on him, hair more grey than blonde, both on his head and in his bushy eyebrows, although the patchy bristles in his unshaven face maybe held more of the original color. His shoulders were slightly hunched, though with weariness or strain or age or an old injury, that wasn't so evident.

"Dinna ye worry yerself about that, laddie buck," the older man snorted in derision. "Nae sa old as all that, but the years I do hold, I've spent clambering up the sides of more buildings than ye've probably set foot in."

O'Dell used the knuckles of his left hand to trace the wicked-looking scar that bisected that same side of his face, from temple to cleft of his chin. He'd done that several times since his arrival, enough it was obviously an engrained habit. The scar looked old enough he'd probably had it for most of his life, more than enough time for the action to become second nature. Maybe, eventually, they'd ask him just how he'd gotten such a grotesque scar, but it wouldn't be today. That was for when they got to be, HE got to be, a member of the team, and it didn't look like that would be anytime soon, probably never. After all, Blue was coming back; this was just temporary.

Corbett looked, looked again. There was something just faintly familiar about this Mickey O'Dell. No, he didn't think he'd ever met the man with the lilting Irish accent. If nothing else, he'd have remembered that scar! But still, there was something. Oh, well, he figured he'd remember sooner or later.

"Knife work. You a thrower?" Corey asked, reluctantly. Might as well at least give the guy a chance. Wasn't like there weren't plenty of buildings around they could test him on.

O'Dell shrugged, "some, if needs be. Tend to stick to close up, if I have a choice." 

"Eyes giving you some trouble, old man? Maybe some joint trouble in your throwing arm? Stiff fingers?" Corey challenged him. And that was understandable; it was his life on the line, his and the others of his team, and he had to consider that, not just the tender feelings of this oldster.

An amazingly chilling smile met that challenge, along with a slight chuckle. 

"Nae, nothing like that. Just, more satisfying, ye kin, doing it that way, Gives me a right peaceful feeling, deep inside, feeling that blade sliding in so neat-like, to do its work. Makes a skin-over-satin sound, ye know? Just like a lullaby, it is." 

Those cold blue eyes, they'd have made anyone more than a little uncomfortable.

Later, after O'Dell had been settled in on the narrow bed allotted him, Corey took exception to the whole situation.

"First, Gerry, he's old enough to be my father, if not more so. I don't see how he's gonna keep up if things get rough. And did you see his eyes?? Hear him talking about the knife work?? Gave me the cold chills! Yeah, I use a knife, and I'm damned good, but he enjoys his work just a little too much for my peace of mind. I'm not going to be happy with him at my back, I'll tell you that! What happens if he starts hankering after that 'peaceful, satisfying feeling', and figures I'm, any of us, are just as likely as the next Joe??!"

Corbett sighed. {"Well, there's one member of the team introduced, and it went SO well. Only two more to go. Blackie should be okay, nothing much bothers him; but I can't wait to see how Beau takes to him. He's the testy one, a hell of a lot more than Corey usually. Whoopee! I flippin' can't wait! Well, you're the one who wanted to be a Team Leader, Gerry, you idiot you!"}

And Blackie WAS okay with the newcomer, hardly raised an eyebrow, just looked bored through the introductions. Well, Blackie had a level of self-confidence unknown to most men, probably arising from being a professional fighter before the war. Yeah, that probably made one hell of a difference.

Beau, though, that was a different story. Beau was far more concerned about where Blue had gone, what he was doing; less inclined to accept another in their usual team-mate's place. After all, HE'D been keeping a eye on Blue, an ever more suspicious one, ever since that little incident down at the pub, a couple of strange happenings on their missions. An incident at the tail end of a stream of oddities that had caught his attention, nothing he felt right going to the boss about, since one of those oddities INVOLVED the boss, but still, something that made him uneasy. Uneasy enough to mention it over drinks with someone he'd worked with a few times. 

He'd been taken seriously, been assured someone would take a closer look at Blue, not to do anything or say anything, and he'd gone along, hoping he was doing the right thing.

Now having to adapt to a newcomer, one who had a whole slew of question marks in connection to him, that didn't help one bit. After all, he figured Corey had the right of it. This Mickey O'Dell was well past being of much use to them.

Soon, however, it became apparent that Corey's misgivings about Mickey were far wrong. The rest of the team had watched, more than a little impressed, while the older man shimmied up the sides of various buildings and other structures they were testing him on, all with great ease. No arrogance, no cocky attitude, no in-your-face smugness, just a quiet competence that had to leave an impression. This, obviously, was a professional, no matter his age.

They'd also watched with some amazement when Corbett told him to 'go fetch your weapons, let me see what you're used to working with', and after a considering pause, though without leaving the room, the table in front of O'Dell ended up with a palm knife, half a dozen wicked-looking throwing points with three inch hilts, two stilettos, one garrote, a metal thumb talon like they'd not seen before, and, for some odd reason, a paper-wrapped roll of quarters. The fact that no one had any hint of any of those beforehand, well, that was telling, though none of the team intended to show that.

"That's all? You don't think you might be leaving yourself a little short there?" Corbett had asked sarcastically. 

O'Dell had frowned down at the lot, considering the display, then firmly shook his greying head. "Nae, think that'll do me. Unless we're headed into real trouble, then I'll add a thing or twa maybe."

Even Blackie had laughed and clapped him on the back at that rejoinder.

But that wasn't the only 'display' that won their approval.

Now, at the self-same pub, the one where Blue had kept meeting up with 'old friends' with amazing regularity, the guys watched as their NEW teammate did the same. 

Well, perhaps not an old friend. She certainly wasn't old, far from it indeed, and O'Dell had seemed truly startled when the bartender had grinned and told him, just as they were getting seated, "you have a visitor, if you can call her that. Took a room this afternoon; seems she was hoping you'd show up."

"A visitor?" Goniff had said, cautiously. Patrick had told him it was a possibility, depending on circumstances, "might be a 'Sheila' or a 'Devon' or someone else; can't much say just yet,", but obviously couldn't give him any idea of the particulars, not before Goniff had transformed into Mickey O'Dell and headed out to join his new team.

"Yes. Signed the register as 'Sheila O'Dell'. Oh, there she is now," nodding at the vibrant young redhead entering the room, her eager eyes settling on Mickey, a wide smile of anticipation on her face.

The guys straightened, glancing at each other. Now, this was someone they'd not mind in the least getting introduced to.

"Sheila O'Dell, the man said. Your daughter, Mickey?" Beau asked.

Corey, always the wag, had to offer, "maybe your granddaughter, old man?"

Mickey, seeing that quick steam of signals, spotting the bit of jewelry he'd never seen her wear before, stood and let a slow, satisfied smile accompany his outstretched arms that soon held that warm and lush female body, along with receiving a sincere hug and a warm kiss to his cheek. Not where he'd have preferred it to have landed, perhaps, but the evening was young, yet.

He frowned at the woman in his arms in mock sternness. "And what are you doing here, then? You'll have these lads thinking you don't trust me out on my own. Thought you were going to wait in Edinburgh til I got back again."

A warm chuckle greeted that. "Now, that's pure inhospitable, Mickey, and after I came all this way! I got lonesome for you, what else? Buy me a drink, will you, husband?"

"Husband??!" came in quick, reflexive responses from Blackie and Corey, Beau and Corbett too stunned to react.

"Aye, her husband. This be'n't my daughter, you rascals, though if she were, it's not within a mile of her I'd be wanting any of YOU. Corbett, Corey, Blackie, Beau - This is my Sheila," he offered, as he motioned to the barmaid to order a shot of whiskey. "My wife, aye," he turned to tell the stunned men, "and it's not within a mile of HER I'll be wanting any of you either, not without me keeping a close eye on you lot. Her I can trust; you? Maybe not so much," though there was an obvious good-humor about all that, no real warn-off.

It was Corbett who asked the question that Beau had urged on him in a low whisper. There was something there, some suspicion, and Corbett fully intended to take Beau aside later and get some answers of his own, but for now, he went along.

"So, how long have you two been married?" he asked as casually as he could.

Mickey gave him a sheepish look, clearly embarrassed, though that was an unexpected thing, to be sure. I mean, it was a simple enough question.

"Near three years now, ever since her da - well . . ." letting his voice trail off, giving a tiny shrug. Oh, he might be on a job, true enough; serious business, true enough. That didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun along the way. He knew he could trust her to follow his lead, even upping the ante a little. Better even than working with Casino, that was, in a lot of ways; his lady had more twists and turns to her than you could imagine, and could follow all of his as if they were her own as well.

"Ever since WHAT, Mickey?" Beau chimed in, showing he hadn't been as disinterested in the conversation as he'd been acting. He'd been thinking a recent marriage, maybe VERY recent, maybe in order to get a shoe in the door to the team. But three years? That seemed not to fit what he was worried about.

Sheila had been following the conversation. Now she glanced over, leaned in to run the back of her fingers along Mickey's unscarred cheek, her caress being only the beginning, letting her eyes meet his with obvious warm affection, almost getting lost in the sly amusement there before she caught herself, and let a low chuckle trickle out.

"Family knew Mickey was a right whiz with the blades and such; set him up with teaching me, since I'd already the interest and more than a bit of natural talent, you see. Everything was coming along right well, least as far as WE were concerned; then my da walked in from hunting coneys, all unexpected-like, and figured out it wasn't just the knife work me and Mickey were spending such long days and nights practicing. Gave me a choice of him sending Mickey on his way down the road with a right fierce beating, or seeing him in a cold grave by way of that shotgun he was carrying.

"Well, there's none his equal to my way of thinking, my Mickey, blue-eyed devil that he is. With a knife, or aught else," she'd laughed. "Had me a different notion, and wasn't inclined to take any other view. Took some convincing, but da finally saw things my way. So he handed me my gran's wedding ring, and gave his blessing, stood us in front of a preacher, grumbling all the while about having a 'son-in-law' older than himself.

"So, now we're safely wed, where no other lass ever managed that little bit of a miracle, him being the slippery sort, you see. Acourse, that don't mean I want him out of my sight for too long, ye kin. Likely to get into all kinds of mischief, he is. Might be deciding to teach some other promising student the knife work, and maybe a bit else, and have to confess, that would vex me more than a little."

There was a slight pout to that voluptuous mouth now, and an arch warning in the glance she was sending their new team member.

Mickey sighed, shook his head ruefully, "she's the jealous sort, you see, and a temper you'd not think likely, to look at that pretty smile. Well, she's just that good with a knife, maybe a shade better than I am, even, and a man'd be a fool to run afoul of that. So I put up with the dire hardship of having a young thing like her as a wife," getting a laugh from the entire table.

Yeah, when the rest of the team departed for their base, leaving Mickey O'Dell behind to deal with his dear young wife, there were more than a few questions, more than a few qualms, but none that disturbed the sweet reunion of the two ensconced in that far room at the back of the pub. And if it was a reunion of only two, not the full three, well, it would have to do for now. And, truthfully, it did quite well, considering. Seemingly even the one not present would accept that as a given.

He'd insisted, later, Mickey O'Dell, on showing off his wife's skills with a knife. And she truly was impressive, distance, close-up, and anything inbetween. If she was the student, heaven alone knows what he was like as her teacher! 

That she turned out to be an accomplished pickpocket as well? That was surprising, and they would have sworn she hadn't been close enough to manage it, but after she'd laughingly returned various items they'd been carrying, they didn't question her ability in that regard. Any doubts they might have had rapidly disappeared.

By the end of the week, she was no longer a stranger; by some strange metamorphosis, she had become an adjunct to Mickey O'Dell himself, or maybe him to her. And somehow, they no longer mistrusted him, and accordingly, no longer mistrusted her. Odd, really, when you came to think on it, but that was simply the way it was.

And so also it was, when the call came for Team Jada to head out on a mission, with Blue McEnroy not yet back, and Corey Burmeister not yet battle-ready, Gerry Corbett found himself with a team that included Blackie, Beau, Mickey O'Dell, and although he still wasn't sure how it had happened, SHEILA O'Dell. Well, a quick call to HQ confirmed she had the security clearance she'd claimed when Mickey had suggested it. 

Though, at London HQ, Kevin Richards had given a glare likely to peel wallpaper when Private Jeffrey Ames stuck in his head in the door and grinned, offering a laughing explanation.

"Got Special Ops Team Jada on the line, wanting to confirm security clearance for one 'Sheila O'Dell'. Seems those responsible for letting him know that already are sort of 'draggin' their heels. Thought maybe you could take care of that little matter for a Friend?"

{"I should have known better than to think she'd stay out of this. Why I ever thought differently, I'll never know,"} Richards shook his head, knowing his orders to the contrary had proved damned useless. He'd intended to pull Goniff out, now that they knew it really HAD been Blue stealing information, but there was no time for that now, not if a mission was in the offing. He just hoped it went well; he'd hate to explain to Garrison if his damned pickpocket didn't make it back!

"Yes, confirm that with them, Private. And if Jada needs to speak with me, I'd confirm it as well. And tell him to tell 'Sheila and Mickey' that they'll be headed back to their own base as soon as they get back; everything's all in order."

{"Hmmmph! 'Draggin' their heels, indeed!"} thinking of one Meghada O'Donnell, codename 'The Dragon'. {"Jeffrey, you are getting far too good at this!"}

And it was more than a little fortunate for that to be the case, that she came along, for without her skills, her determination, they just might not have made it back. 

But, now, looking at her leaning over Mickey, his head in her lap, her crooning at him in the most loving of voices, they had to wonder at the contrast with what they remembered of the virago that had slashed her way through the opposition, leaving her looking more like a blood-drenched Lady Macbeth than anything else. 

"Easy, now, love. You'll be fine. Just breathe deep, and we'll have you back before you know it. Hot soup, fresh scones, a nice soft bed, all warm and cozy, to recover in. Will have you back in fine fettle before you know it. Just rest easy now," she urged, smoothing his hair back gently, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

Rolling his eyes in disbelief, Blackie whispered to his two teammates, "I don't get it! He's just grazed, right?? That's what it looked like to me, anyhow. You'd think he's at death's door from the way she's going on."

Beau snorted with amusement, "yeah, he's probably cut himself worse shaving. But don't say anything and spoil it for him. Look at that show! He's eating it up, having her fuss over him like that. Part of that 'hardship' of having a young wife, you know! Don't know how he 'puts up with it', myself."

Corbett took a long look at the pair, caught that quick knowing glance in his direction, then that wink and cocky grin from the prone O'Dell, and then he groaned out loud. From this angle, with that scarred cheek on the far side where Corbett could no longer have it grab his attention, where the dimmer light muted the grey in that hair, it all clicked into place. 

NOW he knew why Mickey O'Dell had seemed familiar in some way; he'd seen that grin before, on the face of that damned pickpocket of Craig Garrison's. He'd only seen him a time or two, but now . . . {"Same height and build, blond, blue eyes. Yeah, someone's got some explaining to do!"}

And some explaining he got, and if he wasn't pleased to find out he'd been nursing a viper to his breast in the form of one Blue McEnroy, AND not pleased to find out he and the other members of his team - well, all except Beau - had also been under suspicion, at least it was over and done. And thinking back on the job they'd just come off of, what they'd been able to accomplish, he made a decision, and then an offer.

"If you ever get tired of working with Garrison, you're more than welcome to switch over," he'd told Mickey, uh, Goniff. "You can even bring along your 'young wife', if you like."

Finding out Sheila O'Dell had been The Dragon had been a shock initially, but remembering her performance on the mission, it made perfect sense. What DIDN'T make so much sense was those two hadn't dropped the charade as soon as Corbett had figured out who his second-story man really was. {"If you didn't know better, you'd not even question it; they seem to know what each other is thinking, even going to say next, just with a glance. Hmmmm, I wonder . . ."}

"I'll keep that in mind, mate, but 'ave to say, don't see it 'appening," had been his response, that Irish lilt now a firm, if cheerful, Cockney, the former accent having disappeared as quickly and completely as that scar. "No telling w'at kind of trouble the Lieutenant and the guys would get up to without me there to keep them in line. 'Ave a tendency towards mischief, they do; need a calm, steady 'and on the 'elm. Wouldn't be surprised to find they'd managed some of that just in the short time I've not been around to keep them from it, you know."

The redhead gave him SUCH a look, but then confirmed, her lips trembling even as she did so. 

"True, Corbett, every bit of that. HE'S the serious one of the lot, you know; strictly business, never aught else, unlike the rest of those rascals. Can't imagine the Lieutenant managing to keep the others in line without his help; a heavy load on his shoulders, no doubt of it; amazing he bears up under it, in my opinion."

Somehow, seeing the grins on both their faces, Corbett was pretty damned sure that was nowhere near the truth. One of these days, he was going to have to make time to treat Lieutenant Garrison to a few drinks, and get the REAL story.

Garrison had just finished his part of the operation, turning over Blue McEnroy to the authorities. There was no doubt, not any more; catching the man with copies of the various codes, list of contacts, and much more, AND grabbing the solid citizen type he was getting ready to hand it all over to, it was a quick windup to what could have dragged out for an uncomfortable length of time.

"Did it HAVE to be this complicated?" Garrison complained over a drink. Sometimes he thought their various operations on THIS side of the Channel were more draining than the ones in enemy territory.

"Unfortunately, yes. When Beau Boudreaux told me what he knew, what he thought was happening, and who he suspected was behind it, it was clear that some decisive action had to be taken to get at the truth," Kevin Richards explained.

"The problem was, while Beau THOUGHT it was McEnroy at the bottom of things, each of the other members of the team had done a few odd things over the past couple of months as well, so he couldn't be absolutely sure. Putting the most obvious suspect in new surroundings, where if he was a wrong one, he'd be tempted to continue his activities - new surroundings with people, you and your men, who could watch him, catch him at it - that was only one side of the equation.

"If it turned out it WASN'T McEnroy, that meant there was still likely an enemy agent, or someone just as dangerous, someone gathering information to sell to the highest bidder, operating out of Team Jada. That meant a new set of eyes there as well. And as annoying as I sometimes find your 'resident pickpocket', he has as sharp a set of eyes as I've come across. AND he's quite adept at hiding that fact, as we both know."

Well, Garrison couldn't argue with any of that, and it had worked out, thought he would have preferred Goniff not getting shot. Still, it had been just a graze, and wouldn't slow the man down for more than a day or two. In fact, it was a handy excuse to give him a little free time; it wasn't like he was going to go far. Of course, Garrison intended to check on him later 'just to be sure'. He was sure everyone would understand the necessity for that.

She'd been waiting impatiently, and now the clang of the gate told her he had finally arrived, as did the brisk tap-tap at the kitchen door. A quick look out the kitchen window told her he'd left the fatigues behind, had come up with a duplicate for that ruined shirt, which went so nicely with those jeans.

{"The way he looks, aieeee! Somewhere there just has to be a song in this,"} she chuckled to herself as she hurried to open the door. He was leaning up against the doorframe, wicked grin on his face, blue eyes twinkling.

"Got leave, the next forty-eight hours, as long as I stay close at 'and. Now, w'at was it you were saying about 'ot soup and fresh scones? And more to the point, wasn't there some mention of a nice, soft bed, all warm and cozy like? Craig'll be down later, but don't see any reason not to get a 'ead start on the lot, do you?"

Yes, a song, no doubt about it. She could almost hear it, then it was there, music and all. 

'Somebody's knockin, should I let him in?  
Lord, it's the devil, and would you look at him!  
I heard about him, but I never dreamed,  
He'd have blue eyes and blue jeans!'

There were more words, drifting through the back of her mind, but then his arms were around her, his lips on hers, and she forgot about the song. It would wait for another time; right now, she had other, more important things on her mind. She had hot soup to be making, scones to be baking, and yes, a nice warm cozy bed ready and waiting to give her blue-eyed devil a proper welcome.

*'Somebody's Knockin'', as sung by Terri Gibbs


End file.
